


Send in the Clowns

by the_law_of_progress



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Ballantine Jr, Gen, M/M, Numerous OCs - Freeform, various Folly wizards appear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_law_of_progress/pseuds/the_law_of_progress
Summary: Arnhem, September 1944.Two teams from the Folly are sent in to follow up on some rumors that a surviving group of demimonde have hidden out in the city.They were wrong.
Relationships: David Mellenby/Thomas Nightingale
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	Send in the Clowns

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are! This was inspired by the silliest prompt from mark-dennis on tumblr: "At this point if a clown invited me into the woods, I would just go." Thanks :D  
> Many thanks to dis-queen-of-erebor for editing and for help with the title!
> 
> Title from Stephen Sondheim's "Send in the Clowns."

David only vaguely remembered when they landed with the 1st Airborne Division in the Dutch town of Arnhem during Operation Market Garden. After hearing rumors that a small band of demimonde might be hiding out in the town, two small squads from the Folly were sent in with them. 

The rumors were wrong.

The two squads quickly lost contact. The first Folly squad, commanded by Captain Thomas Nightingale, was currently in retreat. The status of the second Folly squad, under Captain John Ballantine, Jr. was unknown. 

Thomas would insist that they were “regrouping from a new location until they could strike back at the superior enemy forces,” but David was a realist now. There was no use obfuscating intentions behind pretty words, not when his formerly dear friends had betrayed him that way.

They had found shelter on the first floor of a fire-stricken building, hidden away from the pocket of Nazi practitioners- and their werewolves- assigned to the 9th SS Panzer Division.

After narrowly escaping the werewolves, David, Thomas, and a few of the other more mobile men had carried the wounded up the narrow stairs. Hopefully the elevation would limit the chances that the werewolves would find them by chance. 

Thomas had just gone out again, seeking out a few more lost souls from the failed attempt to take the enemy practitioners’ temporary headquarters several streets over. They had heard the screams from Ballantine’s squad as they hit the headquarters’ defenses, before losing all contact. David recognized the defenses; he had helped design them.

“Please, it hurts,” cried young Private Hugh Oswald. He was clutching his leg where a piece of shrapnel- converted from a downed aircraft into an offensive weapon by the Nazi practitioners- was lodged in the muscle of his thigh.

“It will be alright, sir, but you must be quiet.” Whispered Corporal Pitcher. Formerly a servant at the Folly, Pitcher had volunteered as one of the few non-practitioners in the “Folly Brigade.” “Well, someone has to look after the young gentlemen,” he had said when asked by Mr. Hubbard the butler.

Pitcher turned to him. “Lt. Mellenby, sir, if you could get the doors, I can carry him up the stairs.” 

David let out a breath. “Yes, yes let’s do that.”

In one swift motion, Pitcher had scooped up Oswald like a babe, with one strong arm under his knees and another supporting his back. Oswald pressed his head into Pitcher’s shoulder, muffling his cries. “There you are, sir, it won’t be long now.”

David rushed for the door at the top of the stairs, carefully maneuvering so as to keep the door open, but allowing enough space for Pitcher and Oswald to pass through.

They found a mostly intact bedroom, with a bed that had been spared the worst of the fire. Pitcher carefully laid Oswald on it. He pushed Oswald’s hair back with fatherly affection. David couldn’t help but think how young Oswald looked. He went back downstairs, pausing on the landing to clear his throat.

In the time it had taken David and Pitcher to get Oswald up the stairs, Thomas had returned, along with a handful of men. David didn’t recognize any of them at first, until he saw the man clutching tightly to Thomas.

When David was young, barely more than a toddler, his uncle and grown-up cousin had come to visit. They had been in conversation with his father when little David had been brought out to say hello. Excitedly, he had run up to his father and hugged his leg fiercely, or at least, he thought it had been his father. Instead, he had mistakenly hugged his cousin, who, from a distance, had seemed so like his father- albeit much younger- that little David hadn’t noticed the difference. His father told him the story during his cousin’s funeral in 1916.

David watched Archie Boatright- albeit a little younger- stumble into the house. It was Thomas’s arm wrapped around his shoulder that kept him upright, although David couldn’t see anything visibly wrong with him. 

“Boatright?” he said, barely managing not to whisper _Archie_. Thomas met his eyes, mouthing the word _nephew_. The boy at his side- Archie Boatright’s very young nephew- wouldn’t stop trembling. “I-its Jimmy Boatright sir,” he stuttered, “I-I m-mean James. I’m Private James Boatright.”

“Right. Well then Private Boatright, let’s get you upstairs.” David took the boy from Thomas, carefully looping Boatright’s arm around his shoulder.

It was difficult to navigate two men up the stairs, even if David had always been rather slender and young Boatright was skinny as a leaf.  
“When did you graduate from Casterbrook, Boatright?” he asked, trying to take the boy’s mind off whatever it is he saw that frighten him. 

“I haven’t sir.” He said quietly. “They let us enlist, those of us old enough. So, I did.”

David pushed open the door to the bedroom, where Oswald lay curled up in the tattered handmade quilt that covered the bed. Pitcher was going through the closet, taking a few half-scorched jackets, and folding them under Oswald’s head.

He paused when he caught sight of David and young Boatright. “Sir.” 

“Boatright, why don’t you help Corporal Pitcher find supplies for the wounded?” he said softly, unwinding his arm from the boy. 

Boatright- and oh how it hurt to think that name- nodded. He was still shaking but was standing on his own. Yes, a task to keep him busy would be just the thing.

“Alright, Private Boatright is it? How about you see if there’s some more blankets in one of the closets upstairs. Off you go.” 

The boy scurried out of the room, without so much as a word. Pitcher shook his head. “He’s too young to be here.” 

David agreed, but said nothing. His older brother Michael had children about the age of young Boatright. Every summer, he had visited his nieces and nephews out in the country, bringing them little trinkets or perform small bits of magic that made them smile and laugh and say, “Oh do that _again,_ Uncle Davey!” 

His oldest nephew- who he had cradled in his arms as a tiny week-old baby- had been killed in action last year.

He felt too old to be here.

There was a hand on his shoulder. “Sir,” said Pitcher, his voice low and his face leaning in close. David could practically feel his breath on his neck. “Why don’t you go check on Captain Nightingale?”

David nodded. “Yes. Yes, alright.” 

\--

Downstairs, a few of the men who were well began to rearrange bits of burned furniture to make the erstwhile sitting room more comfortable. Nightingale stood near the front window, keeping an eye on the setting sun. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of David.

“Ah, Mellenby, good.” Thomas stood near him, talking lowly in his ear. If they had been back at the Folly, this was when David would lean in close and whisper, “Your room or mine tonight?” And Thomas would nod as if David had been asking his thoughts on one of his newest theories before whispering his answer.

Instead Thomas asked, “How are they?”

“Oswald is down.” David said bluntly. “And Boatright… he’s exhibiting signs of combat fatigue.” 

Thomas nodded stiffly. “I was afraid of that,” he whispered back. He shook his head, “Well, that puts us down more men then I’d like. Regardless, we’ll have to go back out and see who we can recover from Ballantine’s squad.”

Thomas caught the eye of a mobile NCO, putting him in charge of the house whilst he and David were gone. Then they set out to see who they could find.

The streets were silent. The cobblestone streets should have been full of vendors and farmers selling their fall harvest goods in the crisp autumn air. Instead, not even the birds sang.

“How far do you think they could have gotten?” whispered David, as they crept along the deserted streets, backtracking towards the last known location of Ballantine’s squad.

Thomas shook his head. “I don’t know. If I know Ballantine, he would have tried to put as much distance between the enemy and his men.”

David tried not to sneer. Ballantine, a known bully, would choose the cowardly strategy. What he should have done was what Thomas had done: find a safe house and get the wounded evacuated to higher ground. He doubted Ballantine had even thought of using elevation to his advantage.

But Ballantine was Thomas’s friend, even if he didn’t understand how the two could stand each other. So, he held his tongue.

It took them almost half an hour to sneak down and over three streets to the riverside. The remains of the bridge blown by the Nazi panzers littered the street.

Creeping around the rubble, they planned to dart across to a parallel street, just a few blocks over from the Nazi practitioners’ temporary headquarters. 

They stopped when they heard moaning from the rubble.

Nightingale met Mellenby’s eyes. David nodded. He stared slowly stalking forward, ducking behind some larger pieces of rubble. Nightingale stayed back, his back pressed to the side of a building as he kept watch, always ready to guard his back.

David stuck his head out, low enough not to be seen across the river, but far enough that he could see the demolished edge of the erstwhile bridge. Halfway between that edge and where David was hiding was a man, pinned underneath the rubble. David could just make out a tuft of dark hair and the edges of what was likely a British uniform. Then the man turned his face.

It was Ballantine.

David swore. It looked like he was going to have to rescue that idiot after all.

He nodded to Thomas, signaling that he was going to press forward. Nightingale nodded back.

Creeping forward, David slunk around a rather exposed section of rubble, hoping the evening shadows would hide his movements. 

He pressed himself against the side of a large piece of rubble. With a quiet hiss, he called out, “Ballantine! Ballantine, it’s Mellenby!” 

Hopefully the man would be too out of it to notice the lack of rank. 

“M-Mellenby?” he stuttered out hopefully.

David carefully crept around the rubble until he was face-to-face with Ballantine.

Ballantine was pined underneath a large piece of rubble. Only half his torso was visible, and there was a severe bloodstain seeping up his uniform. David couldn’t see the man’s hips or legs. He somehow doubted they were still attached.

There was no sign of any other men.

“What happened, Captain?” he asked lowly, almost harshly.

“Attacked,” whispered Ballantine, his breathing coming fast, “W-w-we were at-tt-ttacked from behind.” 

“Didn’t you have a rearguard?” 

Ballantine shook his head. “Did-did-didn’t think we n-n-needed one.” 

David wanted to curse at the dying man. What a fool he was! 

The blood trickled over the edge of the broken bridge, dripping into the river below.

“Where are the rest of your men?” David asked.

Ballantine raised a shaky hand, gesturing towards the house where Thomas stood watch. “In the basement.” He managed, before harsh coughs overtook him. David helped him sit up a bit. He watched as Ballantine coughed up blood and spittle. It wouldn’t be long now.

“How many survivors?” he asked. Even with as he lay dying in front of him, David couldn’t bring himself to comfort Ballantine. It seemed so petty, to not let go of old schoolyard quarrels, but David was done being polite. At least he could just about manage being civil.

Ballantine shook his head. “Five? No… we…” he let out another wet cough, “we lost Thompson… four.”

David pursed his lips. He watched the setting sun, trying to judge how long until full dark. It would be more difficult to get the men back once the sun had fully set. It was so close to the full moon; they risked being spotted, or worse, scented.

They sat in silence, David unwilling to bring up a new subject and Ballantine barely able to think of anything at all. The dying man shuddered, his breaths growing weaker.

David tried not to think too many uncharitable thoughts as Ballantine finally breathed his last. He tried to think of something to say over his body, but instead thought of the words his sister-in-law often said to her children when they said something unkind about a horrible neighbor: if you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t speak at all.

So, it was with his silence that David returned to Thomas, the glare of the sun along the river hiding him from enemy sight.

“Was it one of Ballantine’s?” Thomas asked, recognizing immediately what had occurred, although not, it seemed who it had occurred to.

David hesitated, “Not quite.” Thomas looked puzzled. “It was Ballantine. He’s dead.”

They were silent for a moment. Thomas stared off into the sunset for a moment. “Ah.” He said softly.

David gave him another moment to mourn, before pressing on. “Nightingale,” he said, trying to focus him, “He said there’s survivors in the basement of this house.”

That grounded Thomas. He was always able to focus when he had a mission. Wiping away the mist that had gathered around his eyes, Nightingale asked, “How many?”

“Likely four.” 

Nightingale nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.

\--

They found three men in the basement of the house, along with the body of the fourth. “Edwards died a couple hours ago,” said Private Jones. His hands had been hastily bandaged by Private Reed, who had been struck in the head by debris and had been fine until about an hour ago.

Private Hathaway- with a makeshift bandage around the shrapnel in his foot- had tried to wake him, with no success. 

It was fortunate that at least one of the men could walk, thought David as he assisted Hathaway in limping back to their temporary hideaway. Thomas carried Reed, whose breathing and pulse were troublesomely light.

Jones trailed behind them, unwilling to go in front. “It came from behind, sirs.” He explained, nervously glancing back around behind them. “They just came from behind. We had no warning and then… it was horrible.” 

The motley little party dragged themselves slowly and quietly across the silent streets, as the sun sank ever lower. It was full dusk when Thomas stopped abruptly. David and Hathaway nearly fell over, stumbling as they came to a sudden halt.

“Nightingale?” David whispered. Nightingale lowered Private Reed to the ground, gently laying him against the wall. Taking his arm in hand, Nightingale pushed back his sleeve, placing his fingers at his wrist. David drew in a sharp breath. 

Nightingale cursed softly. Looking up at David, he shook his head once.

Hathaway looked between Nightingale and David helplessly. Carefully, David looped his arm around Thomas’s shoulders. 

“Is he alright?” He heard Hathaway whisper to Thomas. 

“No, Private,” said Captain Nightingale softly. He was much better at comforting the men than David was. 

Behind them, Jones’s mouth was set in a hard line. Softly, David asked, “Are you alright?” Jones gave a short nod but said nothing. David nodded back, feeling guilty relief at not having to comfort the young man. They pressed on.

\--

When they made it back to the burned building, David held the door open as Thomas dragged Hathaway across the threshold. “I’ll stay here with him until he’s stable enough to move upstairs.” Murmured Thomas to David, “Take Jones on ahead.” David nodded. He ushered the young man up the stairs. Looking up the narrow staircase, Jones’ eyes widened. 

“Maybe…” he started but cut himself off. 

“Yes, Private?” David asked.

Jones looked everywhere but at him. “Maybe you could go first, sir?”

Suddenly David remember that Jones’ squad had been ambushed from the back. “Yes, yes of course. This way.”

A medic from the second Folly squad was busy pumping Oswald full of morphine when David and Jones entered the room. Jones was content to be settled in the corner opposite the bed, a blanket tucked around his legs. Oswald’s expression had slackened, and his eyes refused to focus on David when he ask, “How are you feeling Private?”

“Never better, sir.” He smiled vaguely, eyeing something behind David. David turned around, but there was nothing there, save the wall.

“Is there a circus in town, sir?” he asked suddenly.

David turned quickly back to Oswald. “No. Why would you say that?” he asked, a little more sharply than he intended. 

“Well, where else did the dancing elephants come from?” Oswald gestured towards a painting of woodland creatures on the wall. It was half attached to the wall, barely still hanging up at all. Oswald waggled his finger in the direction of the picture, tracing out lazy circles.

The medic came over then. “Huh. Looks like we gave him a little too much.”

Boatright brought out a few moth-bitten blankets from the hall closet. “Here you go, sir.” He said softly, handing them to David. His body was still shaking slightly.

“Good work, Private. Here,” he handed one back to Boatright. “Why don’t you tuck this around Private Oswald?” 

Without a word, Boatright took the blanket and carefully draped it around Oswald, mindful of the freshly bandaged wound.

“Can I get up please, sir?” David heard Oswald asked Boatright. His eyes were still glazed, and he wouldn’t focus on any one thing.

“And do what?”

“Well I’d like to dance with the elephants.” Said Oswald, his voice floaty. “Or the clowns.”

Boatright had stopped folding the blanket. “The clowns?”

“Yes. I think clowns would make lovely dancers. Do you like clowns?”

“I’ve always wanted to run away and join the circus.” Said Boatright, his tone wistful. 

“Mm,” Oswald murmured, "At this point, if a clown invited me into the woods, I would just go."

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to join them anytime soon, Private,” said a familiar voice from behind David. He turned and saw Thomas half carrying young Private Hathaway, who limped slowly into the room. He settled them in the far corner, next to Jones.

“Oh, sir….” Oswald frowned. Though head had fallen back against the wall, he tried to continue his train of thought. “Sir, I’d be a very good clown, I promise.”

Amused, Thomas asked, “And what makes a good clown, Private?” 

Oswald opened his mouth, paused, and then looked to Boatright. “Jim-mmm-my,” he hummed the young man’s name, the morphine slurring his speech, “Jim, Jimmy said…” he squinted at Boatright. “You don’t look like a clown. That’s very important if you’re a clown.” 

Boatright didn’t seem to know what to make of this. “I- I am not a clown Oswald,” he sputtered, “I’m me!”

“But you wanted to be one.”

“Yes, when I was eight!”

David laughed and turned to smile at Thomas. But the man had gone. He frowned, looking around the small room, before sticking his head out into the hall. No one. When he came back in, Pitcher asked, “Something the matter, sir?”

“Did you happen to see where Nightingale got off to?”

Pitcher shook his head. “Sorry, sir.”

Downstairs, a few men from the second Folly squad sat around what had probably been a coffee table before the fire. They were mostly well, just a few scrapes and bruises- nothing that wouldn’t keep them from holding their own in a fight. They nodded to him and he briefly acknowledged them, but he was drawn to some noises that seemed to come from down the hall.

David decided to investigate. He found the noises coming from the kitchen, where a few men were trying to make rations into something vaguely edible with whatever supplies could be salvaged from the pantry.

“Has anyone seen Captain Nightingale?” he asked the men. A few shook their heads. “No, sir.”

He thanked them and wished them luck in their culinary endeavors.

He asked the men in the common room the same question, and they responded that the Nightingale had gone back out. David tried not to swear. 

Of course that self-sacrificing idiot had gone back out again without telling him.

“Tell me when he returns,” he ordered and swept back upstairs to mind the wounded. 

Upstairs, the men had finally stopped discussing clowns, thank heavens.

“You didn’t!” Boatright gasped.

“I did,” said Jones gravely. 

Instead, they had moved onto telling about how they had been wounded.

“But, but your hands?” whispered Hathaway, almost hiding his face in his own hands.

“Well I had to burn it out of him, didn’t I?”

The others nodded solemnly. David was too afraid to ask.

Then, footsteps on the stairs; a figure in the doorway.

“Oh, hullo Captain,” said Hathaway. The others all chimed in a greeting.

The Nightingale nodded at them briefly.

Trying to keep a civil tone, David asked, “Find anyone else, Captain?”

The look on Nightingale’s face made David regret asking. “No. No, I’m afraid not.”

The room was silent for a moment, until the younger men took their leave to continue their conversation. Nightingale stood at David’s side, stiff and still. 

“Mellenby,” said Thomas softly. “Can I speak with you in private?”

They went up to the small attic space. Its wide windows that overlooked both sides of the house made it a good place to hold a strategy meeting and with the heavy stench of burnt cloth in the air, it was not the ideal place to keep the injured, so they were alone.

“David,” he said, when they’d shut the door. “David, we have to attack tonight.”

“Thomas,” he hissed, “It’s too dangerous! We’ll all camp out here for tonight, then have the wounded evacuate back behind lines while we lead the frontal assault in the morning.”

Thomas shook his head. “You don’t know what I saw.”

David clenched his jaw, “You’re damn well right I don’t. If I had gone with you-”

Thomas flinched. “I had to check it out; it was better to go alone, in and out, quietly.”

“And? What did you find?” David tried to set aside his emotions, but still burned at being left behind.

“They’ve brought in reinforcements. We can’t risk waiting until tomorrow night. It’s the full moon then, they’ll be out during the day. We can’t risk them getting ahold of the 1st Airborne’s scent: it has to be tonight.” 

David sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and counted down from 33 by threes. The pattern was ingrained, an old pattern from when he was a child and prone to throwing things. He got to 18, 15, 12- the numbers steadying his breath- 9, 6, 3, 0, before he opened his eyes again. “Okay. Okay,” he ran his hand over his face. “I’ll get Pitcher and Boatright from downstairs.”

Even with the blankets Boatright had found, they didn’t have enough to go around, so everyone was two to a blanket, all huddled together against the chill in the air. Boatright and Oswald were sharing, tucked in bed together like babes in a crib. 

Hathaway and Jones shared another blanket under the window. All their limbs were huddled under the blanket, except the one’s injured foot, making them look like a two-headed man with one foot. Pitcher and the medical Corporal shared a blanket at the foot of the bed, placing them closest to the door, protecting the young men even in sleep.

David hated to wake them. 

Stepping into the room was enough to wake Pitcher and the other Corporal, both of whom immediately reached for their weapons. David raised his hands, putting a finger to lips and gesturing to the sleeping boys at either end of the room. He beckoned for them to step out into the hall. Pitcher nodded, and he and the Corporal quietly disentangled themselves from the blanket. Pitcher took a moment to tuck their blanket around the two sleeping Privates on the floor before joining them in the hall.

“We have to take the fortress tonight.” Whispered David after Pitcher shut the door ever so quietly. “With the full moon tomorrow, we can’t risk out being detected. The wounded will stay here overnight and through tomorrow. If all goes well, we can collect them after the fortress has been taken.” He didn’t say what would happen if all did not go well. They were clever lads; they could figure it out for themselves. 

“Any questions?” 

The medical Corporal nodded, “Sir, I wondered if you or Captain Nightingale were planning on leaving anyone behind to guard the wounded.”

“We intend to leave a man or two behind, yes.”

“Would you,” the Corporal cleared his throat, “would you mind if I stayed, sir? It’s just, I’m concerned with Private Oswald’s leg. There’s a high chance of infection, and I was hoping to check on it every few hours. And,” he hesitated, then continued, “Well sir, he’ll need another dose of morphine and I would prefer not to leave one of the Privates to do that.” 

David nodded. “Yes, you make a strong point. Well Corporal, you’re in charge of the care and protection of the wounded. Anymore question?”

There were none, so David dismissed them to join Thomas and the others downstairs. Pitcher hesitated for a moment, hanging back. “Yes Corporal?”

“Sir,” Pitcher started. He wouldn’t meet David’s eye, rather he had his gaze on the door where the injured slept. “Sir, I wonder, had you planned to take Private Boatright with? I know he’s uninjured…”

David read between the lines. “Perhaps it would be better for the wounded men if there was more than just the Corporal to watch over them. I think it would be best to leave him here to look after Private Oswald and the others.”

Pitcher let out a breath. “Thank you, sir.”

David nodded stiffly. “Right, off we go then.”

-

Afterwards, David couldn’t say what it was like to attack the fortress. He had no memory of it. From what he could gather, this was a good thing. What he did remember was what awaited him when they returned to the half-burned house where they had left the wounded men. 

The first thing David recognized when entering the house was the iron-heavy scent of blood. He and Thomas met eyes for just a moment, before rushing into action.

The Nightingale lead the assault up the stairs, with brave Lt. Mellenby at his side. Pitcher took a few men out of the house, around the side street, to keep an eye on the windows. 

They found the corpses of Jones and another Private first. The Private’s blood stained the wall and stairwell, his body having fallen halfway down the staircase. Even with him laying facedown, David could tell his throat had been ripped out. David didn’t know his name.

Jones lay on the landing, one of his bandaged hands visible over the edge of the top stair. David didn’t remember climbing the stairs. 

Ahead of him, Thomas- no, _Nightingale_ \- stood in front of the room where they had housed the wounded. The door was shut. 

He made eye contact with Mellenby, confirming that he was prepared to do this. David nodded. He always had a harder time than Thomas in separating himself from what he had to do during battle. He hoped it didn’t show.

Nightingale counted down on his fingers, from three, then pushed the door open, holding his gun out in front of him. 

The sight that met them was one that haunted David for the rest of his life. 

On the floor in front of them was Hathaway, or, at least, parts of him. The werewolf had likely made quick work of him. It didn’t seem likely, considering the severity of his injuries, that he could have lived long. A small mercy compared to the others in the room.

The Corporal who had elected to stay behind lay between the werewolf and the bed, his one remaining eye staring unseeingly at the ceiling. Long, viscous claw marks had scrapped across his face, shoulders, and chest. David noted absently that the claws must have caught on his uniform buttons and let his eyes slide away from the bodies to where the buttons gleamed on the floor, bloody gold gleaming on the burned hardwood.

The werewolf itself was dead, most assuredly. It lay in a heap near the bed where Oswald and Boatright lay. At first glance, David was convinced that both men were dead, considering the amount of blood that covered them.

Until he registered the sobbing. 

It took David a moment to realize that it was coming from Boatright.

After ascertaining that the werewolf was dead, Nightingale- no, _Thomas_ \- flew to the bed. Thomas gestured at David to look over Oswald.

He carefully stepped over the gore on the floor, moving to take Oswald’s pulse, checking the man over for injuries. His pulse, though sluggish, was there. David breathed a sigh of relief. He turned to Thomas.

Thomas cradled Boatright in his arms, making small shushing noises like one would make to a small child. David remember many nights at his sister’s house where she had done the same with her children when they were quite small.

“How is he?” David whispered to Thomas. Thomas didn’t answer.

Boatright’s pupils were blown wide, staring into some unseen distance. Upon second glance, David didn’t know how he had thought that Boatright was dead. A bloody gash traveled up from Boatright’s temple, across the top of his head. Tear tracks lined his face, stained with blood and tears. His chest heaved with desperate breaths but was hindered by the deep scratch marks along his abdomen. 

Werewolf claws were known for causing horrific infections. He moved to gently prod the wound, pulling at the ripped uniform too keep the material from entering the open wound. He could almost see his viscera through the open wound. 

David had no idea if the new wonder drug, penicillin, even worked on such infections. Then again, he wasn’t a medical man. 

In Thomas’s arms, Boatright screamed, pressing his bleeding face against Thomas’s chest. That’s when David saw his head.

The wound was horrible, there was no other way to describe it. Having many friends who studied medicine, including the effects of magic on the human brain, David was more than familiar with the human brain. However, he had never seen one inside the skull of a living man. 

His scientific interest lost to his disgust with himself.

The wound was deep and wide. Wide enough to need stitches. David shuddered at the thought. They couldn’t risk the needle penetrating through his skull. 

Boatright shuddered violently, making gasping noises into Thomas’s uniform. “Shush, shush,” whispered Thomas, like one might to a colicky baby. Boatright relaxed suddenly, his limbs going limp. He breathed in and out, in and out, in and… that was it.

Thomas just shook his head, continuing to rock the boy- the body side to side. There were tears in his eyes. David remembered how Thomas had looked at Archie’s funeral, how he had solemnly stood by the fresh grave, looking more like a statue than a man. He remembered how he hadn’t cried, not until late that night when he was in David’s arms back at the flat he kept away from the Folly for his more volatile experiments.

“It’s a waste, Davey.” It had been months since Thomas had called him that. The last time had been when they’d both had leave in London. They had snuck out of the Folly, ostensibly to recover what they could from David’s flat, which had been bombed the week before. They had made love on the half-burned couch, savoring the feeling of being alive and in each other’s arms.

“It’s all a waste.” 

David shook his head. “You can’t think that Thomas. We may have failed here, but the others won’t have. The other bridges will have been secured and we’ll be in Berlin by Christmas. You’ll see.” But even as he said the words- the words that tasted like ash in his mouth- David doubted. He doubted that this war would ever end, or, should there be a cessation in the conflicts, that another wouldn’t start again in twenty years’ time.

Thomas wouldn’t meet his eye. 

They sat there, in silence, until the heard footsteps on the stairs. 

Without a word, they sprung into action. Thomas stood tall in front of David, Oswald, and… no. He stood in front of David and Oswald. David place his hand over Oswald’s mouth to keep him silent in case he woke. He could feel the lightest touch of Oswald’s breath on the back of his hand.

From the other side of the door called a voice, “Sir?” 

It was Corporal Pitcher. David could physically see Thomas’s sigh of relief.

“It’s alright Corporal.” Called Nightingale. The door swung open. David watched Pitcher stiffen as he saw the carnage, but it wasn’t until he saw Boatright’s body that a look of horror dawn on Pitcher’s face. Thomas reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. Pitcher met Thomas’s eyes with a pleading look. Thomas shook his head.

David turned his gaze away as the man tried and failed not hold in his tears. 

Taking pity on Pitcher, Nightingale turned to David. “We’ll need to get Oswald out of here, along with the other survivors.”

Pitcher mumbled something; the words breathless as he held back sobs.

“What was that?” asked Nightingale softly. He moved him to stand in front of Pitcher’s view of Boatright and the medical Corporal’s corpses. 

Pitcher wiped at his eyes, drew a few shaky breaths and said, “There’s no one else, sir. We checked the whole house after securing the perimeter.”

Nightingale didn’t say anything.

In David’s arms, he felt Oswald move a little. His eyes twitched and, through the foggy haze of the drugs he mumbled. “Did the bear go yet?” David hushed him, taking his pulse. It seemed steady enough, if a little weak. “They don’t like clowns…” Oswald mumbled, snuggling into David’s embrace. 

The phrase seemed so disjointed that David asked before he could really think about it. “Who doesn’t like clowns?” 

“Bears.” Oswald said. “The bear got in here, made a mess,” he gestured out towards the bodies on the floor. “They don’t like the clowns.” 

David brushed at his hair with one hand, checking his wound with the other. The bandage wasn’t soaked thorough. He might make it.

Absently, Oswald continued, “He wants to be a clown,” he nodded towards the still form of Boatright.

David couldn’t bring himself to look again at Boatright. 

Instead he tried to focus on more immediate problems. “Nightingale,” he said, “we have to get everyone upstairs.” It would be nauseating to spend all night in the fire-fumes of the attic, but it should be enough to protect them from any further werewolf activity. Or so David hoped.

They carried the corpses downstairs: best to make it look like the lone wolf had found them all. Upstairs in the smoke-stained attic, the few survivors huddled under blankets; there were now enough for every man to have his own. 

David carried Oswald upstairs. He was still mumbling about clowns. After tucking him into a moth-eaten blanket in the corner, he fell right back asleep.

The only one not sleeping was Pitcher and another NCO from the second Folly squad. David vaguely remembered him as having also been a servant at the Folly, Owens or maybe just Owen, he couldn’t recall. They were huddled over Owen-orOwens’s radio. As one of the few non-practitioners, he had been trusted to carry the squad’s only radio. 

They listened in silence for a moment, sitting shoulder to shoulder so they could share earpieces. 

Something made them both frown. Pitcher warily glanced at Owen(s), who frowned back.

“Yes, Corporal?” said Nightingale.

“Sir, the 1st Airborne have surrender.”

There were sharp intakes of breath from around the room.

Nightingale looked grave. “All right. That’s it then. We’re done.”

“Sir?” Pitcher asked.

“We’re evacuating out of Arnhem. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

They were fools to have gone, and now the fools returned home.

 _La commedia_ _è finita._

The comedy is finished.

**Author's Note:**

> Final quote from the opera Pagliacci.
> 
> The Wikipedia entry on "Send in the Clowns" quotes Sondheim to clarify the meaning of the title: "As I think of it now, the song could have been called "Send in the Fools". I knew I was writing a song in which Desirée is saying, "aren't we foolish" or "aren't we fools?" Well, a synonym for fools is clowns, but "Send in the Fools" doesn't have the same ring to it."


End file.
